Random Thoughts III
by Ophium
Summary: A series of short stories, from the POV of various characters on the course of several moments of different episodes. The third one is from Lincoln's POV, during episode 1.17 JCat. Some bad language present.


_A series of drabbles, from the POV of various characters on the course of several moments_

Random thoughts: Lincoln

The ink

_(Set during J-Cat)_

There are only three people in my life about who I can honestly say that I would give my life for. Gladly. Promptly.

And somehow I've managed to place each and every one of them in danger.

One is my son, only just a boy, running from the cops, wanted for the murder of his own mother. A murder he was forced to witness, all in the name of some conspiracy that not even I can understand.

The second is V., Veronica, the one that got away, because I was an ass. And now she's back, poking her head in to the line of fire, treading where the bravest dare not to tread, the only connection line I have to my son and any chance of proving my innocence.

The last one, although physically nearer than either of the other two, is the one who I can't seem to reach.

Michael, the baby brother that grew up to take care of me. My inked sibling who I no longer know as well as I once did.

Mike, the genius that wants to take me out of this place even if it kills him.

He' somehow landed himself in the SHU, standing almost right next door to me now, closer than we've ever managed to be, other than P.I. And I can't even get him to answer me anymore.

To this day I have no idea what possessed him to get himself thrown in to jail to save me.

Older brothers protect their younger brothers, keep them save and sound. I was more than happy to do that for him as he grew up, and I'm damn proud of having succeeded in at least that. It doesn't work the other way around.

What was the point of keeping him off the streets and on the right side of law, what was the point of lying to him all these years, saying that the money was from mom' savings, what would the point be to any of this if he's in jail anyway?

Besides, Mike is the last person that anyone would imagine as a criminal. He has that big blue eyes, fashion clothes and scotch whiskey air about him that lead people to believe that he is as tame as a kitten. He fooled more than his fair share of bullies with that act when we were kids.

And now, here he is, upper body covered in tattoos and a mean looking frown that only fools those who don't know him. Only now the bullies are murders and mobsters and if things go sour he will be getting more than a black eye.

Origami cranes and blueberry pancakes don't do much in here.

I wasn't ready to raise a younger brother, but nevertheless, found myself responsible for Michael's welfare when I was barely fourteen. I failed him miserably as a father, but I always tried to be there as a brother.

The paper birds I used to leave him were as much for him to know I was still around as for me not to forget why I had to stick around.

Much in the same way, I wasn't ready to be a father before I could even legally drink, and yet, LJ was born and forced his presence in to my life in such way that I couldn't bear to exist without him now. I failed as a father again, because blueberries' pancakes can only take you so far and he eventually grew sick of them.

And now, when I have my second chance of doing things right for him, I'm waiting on death row.

The irony of fate never fails to amaze me.

Surprisingly enough, and despite my bad influence over them, both turned out to be exceptional persons, even if, because of my twisted life, one is now wanted for murder and the other is in jail for armed robbery. My two boys.

I press my face against the cold concrete and call Michael again.

There is a small drain from which I sometimes catch sounds coming from the other cells, sometimes even from the guards' shed. Only sound I can hear now is my own breath, heavy with concern.

Isolation cells do weird things to your mind. You're locked down with nothing but four claustrophobic walls, a cot and your own demons. Most of these people here don't know that me and Mike are brothers. And sure as hell none of them knows about Mike's demons about closed, dark spaces.

I never really knew what happened that winter that I spend away from him, locked away in juvie, again. What I do know is that after that he would get nasty nightmares and was scared to death of being in confined spaces. Like an isolation cell.

Some childhood fears fade away with age. Some stay hidden, waiting for the right opportunity to leave the closet and haunt you again. I never knew what happened to that fear of his, but the nightmares, at least, stopped after a while.

I fear for him.

Trapped with my own demons, faced with my own mortality after having felt the cold touch of the straps on that deadly chair, I can't help but wonder about what all of this is doing to Michael.

I try to put myself in his shoes, impossible task as that is, but I try nevertheless.

I know that my heart would've broke if I had to stand and watch Mike being strapped to that electric chair, nothing but the fast ticking of time on the wall-watch between him and a sea of pain, nothing but an impossible to predict phone call between him and death. It would've killed me along with him.

But that's just me.

Mike feels things on a whole different level. If you ask him now, I'm sure he can tell you how many buttons, how many cracks there were on the walls of that room; the number of straps and bolts on that chair; he can tell you how many times I blinked before my face was covered.

Ask him and he'll be able to tell you every detail that happened in that haunted room before they closed the curtain on him. And I'm sure that's what he still sees when he closes his eyes now.

Over the years, I've come to know a little better how Michael works, how his brain picks up things and links them together. It might make him a genius most of the time, but it does him no good when it comes to things he aught to forget.

He never forgets. It was only his lack of confidence in his own abilities that made him tattoo the whole plan on his body. He could've remembered it all, he was just afraid of failure.

Boy's a genius with everything else and totally lost when it comes to his own abilities or potential.

All that ink... I wonder how many hours he spend in the tattoo parlour? I've had a few done too, over the years, and I know how long those bitches take to heal. Where did he find the time?

Sucre joined us too, the whole gang in the damn SHU! The guards were snickering something about a large pair of undies that undid him. I can't risk asking him for details without the CO's listening in, but somehow I'm sure that this has something to do with Michael's plan.

The latino as been a good friend to my brother. For all the weirdos and freaks that are serving time here, I thank the kid's good fortune for landing him Sucre.

I tell Sucre about my worries and he too tries to get Michael to talk, with as little success as me.

Five steps take me to the wall farther away from the door. Another five and I'm leaning against the small square of light to the outside, trying to catch a glimpse of what's going on inside my brother's cell.

I had better chances of peeking under Mary Ann' skirt in fifth grade than I have now of seeing Mike. The angle is impossible and the doors are solid steel.

Trapped within these walls, confined to this concrete coffin, my mind is the only part of me that can wonder farther away than five steps. Inside the private theatre of my brain, I've revisited a lot of memories since I was locked here.

I tried sticking only to the nice ones, but it's been a long time and I ran out of good memories, so I started reminding the bad ones as well.

Michael didn't talk for two days after our mom died. He didn't cry either, which most people found strange, given his age. The comforting taps on the shoulder and the pious whispers of 'poor boys' and 'who'll take of them now' didn't help.

Most thought that he was in denial and that when the truth finally hit him, it would be bad. I didn't cry either, but with me they probably thought that I was being stoic or something.

If the guys at the hospital, the social security people and the few friends of mom that went to her funeral knew us at all, they would know that we just didn't cry. Period.

I was obliviously happy, like most children should be, up until when I was six. Then dad split, leaving me and mom with a new baby on our hands and all the bills to pay. Life wasn't easy from there on, but we struggled and we won most battles. My brother and I learned early on that crying got you nothing in life, so we ended up ditching the habit.

I cried when I held my son for the first time. I cried again when I believed that I was listening to his voice for the last time.

I cry for the badge to come, because my brother isn't answering any of our calls for an awful long time now, and he ain't eight any more, so something has to be wrong.

The bull thankfully takes me serious and goes to check on him. Blood freezes in my veins when I hear his panicked voice calling for a medic.

And all I can think of is that the last sound that I heard coming from Michael's cell was that of his fists, hitting the wall. It felt like nails scratching a blackboard to my ears, impossible as it was for me to stoop him.

I felt so damn useless that I thought about pounding the wall in tempo with him.

BANG!, bang!, BANG!, bang!, BANG!, bang! Until the feeling went away or you punch through the wall, whatever happened first.

I'm glad I didn't, because they tell me nothing about what is going on with my brother and the only thing I can do is bite my nails and wait. I'm left wandering about how he might be, without mercy or respite, helplessly watching the comes and goings in to Michael's cell.

You lose a lot of rights in here. The right to be informed is the one I'm missing the most now.

I will never forgive myself if something happens to Michael because of me. If something more happens to him, I remind myself. He came in here willing to lose a lot just to keep me alive, his own life even, I'm afraid.

I know that all that ink in his body is for me, to get me as far away from the electric chair as possible, but right now, if I thought it would do him any good, I would sit on that damn chair and get this thing over with! I just needed to know if he's ok before I fry.

To die isn't the worst that can happen to you. Its living with the constant weight of the sacrifices that your loved ones do on you behalf, hanging over your head, forever.

I've been a screw up all of my life, and if this crazy plan works and if we do get out, I will have to live with the weight of all that ink hanging over me.

Anything but being a good, honest man, for the rest of my life, and I just know that all that ink will just fall over me and drown me in my sins.

The end.


End file.
